


A tale of the unexpected

by Violetta_Valery



Category: Bleak House (TV 2005), David Duchovny - Fandom, Gillian Anderson - Fandom, The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Aristocracy, Arranged Marriage, Class Differences, Eccentricity, F/M, Fallen Women, Forbidden Love, Gen, Mash-up, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Motherhood, Period-Typical Sexism, Power Play, Secret Children, Secret love, Sexual Violence, spontaneous human combustion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-20 18:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetta_Valery/pseuds/Violetta_Valery
Summary: This is an attempt to bring some sort of happiness to Lady Dedlock, who is a victim of her times. She still suffers a lot, I'm afraid...It is also something that’s been lingering on my mind since I watched “Bleak House” and found out there’s an actual SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION in the story. So I decided to mashup two characters portrayed by a couple of my favourite actors.***Disclaimers: goes without saying, “Bleak House” and “The X-Files” characters are not mine. English is not my mother language, so excuse any grammar errors or unimaginative vocabulary. And of course, have fun!I must ask Mr. Charles Dickens for eternal forgiveness, for tampering with this magnificent story of his.Rating and warnings will be updated as the story evolves.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

It is late evening when Fox Mantle’s carriage arrives to a foggy, deserted St. Albans. It has been a strenuous journey from the far north, and he is eager for a hot supper and a warm bath. The coachman stops at the doorsteps of his family’s friends’ humble house and leaves him with two small trunks on the sidewalk. 

He’s used to the mist and desolation of a small town; it feels familiar, and yet, the atmosphere here is entirely new, electrifying. A feeling of excitement invades him, as if somehow he can tell great things lie ahead, the perspective of a brand new life. He fixes his topper and woollen scarf, and knocks.

“Mr. Snagsby, good evening. I’m Fox Mantle, how do you do?”

“Fox Mantle, my dear boy, welcome to St. Albans!”

“It is wonderful to see you again, sir! Thank you for your kindness in receiving me, my father sends his regards and appreciation.”

“Oh, no formalities with me, my boy! Anything for my best friend’s son! Now, let’s get inside, you must be exhausted from your travels.”

Mantle thinks of reminding Mr. Snagsby that he is no longer the lively boy he met when visiting Mr. William Mantle in Inverness over fifteen years ago, but chooses to let him show his affection. He could easily grow accustomed to it. The Mantle family is a proud pillar of society back in the Scottish Highlands, however, in the closeness of home they have never been prone to warmth, and Fox, the lively boy, grew up missing it terribly, which led the now young man to estrange himself from his household and seek a life of his own elsewhere.

*****

On the other side of town, a short carriage ride away, Lady Dedlock stares at the dark nothingness of the night over the grounds of Chesney Wold, sitting absentmindedly by her boudoir’s window. The true portrait of an aristocracy dame, Lady Honoria Dedlock is notoriously a haughty, restrained figure by nature, however the past few days have encountered her almost as if adrift from her small world. Thoughts of a resurging past races through her mind, and the utter fear of its revelation is enough to make her uneasy. 

Once her maid is sent away for the evening and she finds herself alone, Lady Dedlock goes to her private drawers and retrieves her most precious belongings: a collection of letters neatly tied together in a blue ribbon, and the small portrait of a Royal Army captain in uniform. Her fingers linger on the parchment papers, as if to feel the heart and soul that have been poured into each written letter, the distinguished calligraphy so dear to her now posing a threat she couldn’t placate, if she eventually had to, without risking her husband, the baronet’s, own integrity before society.

Confiding in the intimacy of her room, she shed the tears restrained for days and casted this part of her life into the fire.

*****

Proving to be quite bright from a tender age, Mantle’s father spared nothing to provide him with the finest education and sent him to Oxford in his youth. He was profoundly interested in the human mind, with a particular talent for reading peoples’ behaviours out of elements of their daily lives, something he eventually carved into an investigative method and called “profiling an individual” on an essay that was taken by the faculty with not little controversy. Digging further, Fox devoured the philosophy tomes of the library, and studied in depth all he could find on the occult, witchcraft, unexplained phenomena, medical aberrations, and the roots of British civilization – the Celts, the Saxons, the Viking invasions, the Britons. His debates and writings drew considerable attention, and eventually his father was summoned to the University. His son’s much unorthodox views granted him the epithet “Spooky Mantle”, and Mr. Mantle was appalled to say the least. After a heated discussion between father and son, they agreed that Fox was to end his last semester quietly, with not so much as one single public display for his colleagues and faculty, and then head back home.

Arriving in Inverness, the poor remains of a family union fell apart when Fox learned that his dearest young sister, Samantha, succumbed to her frail health in the previous winter. Not even a letter was sent to prepare his arrival to the sight of her empty room. Samantha was the light of his life, the only trace of tenderness and warmth inside their frigid house, and he wasn’t even made aware of her tragic fate – his parents could’ve sent a word for him when she fell to bed and he would’ve come back home in the very same instant, but they chose not to. So Fox, heartbroken and infuriated, stood up to Mr. and Mrs. Mantle one last time, deciding to leave Inverness for good and make a living for himself. His father agreed to send him to his good friend Mr. Snagsby in St. Albans with a few belongings and some money, so that he would have a place to stay and means until he found work and got on track; he could be cold and heartless, but cared for how his only son would carry on the name of the family, wherever that may be.

*****

Her captain was dead. Wondering through life as Nemo, he was found in a decrepit room, surrounded by paper stacks, empty bottles and opium pipes. Once known as Captain James Hawdon, they loved each other in their tender youth and this love bore a child out of wedlock. Honoria’s disgrace was covered and buried by the arranged marriage with Sir Leicester Dedlock, baronet and owner of lands in Hertfordshire, and for eighteen years the now Lady Dedlock remained safe and cared for under the wings of the much older husband, who paid her proper respect but not much mind. As years went by, the once merry Honoria became more and more a cold, sad statue. A fine piece of Art that decorated the halls of Chesney Wold.

Life would have remained on its same tranquil pace, if Mr. Tulkinghorn, the family’s lawyer, hadn’t appeared one afternoon with documents for Sir Leicester which, by chance or fate, were caught by Lady Dedlock’s eyes. She instantly recognized the handwriting and at that moment, lost her years-old composure, asking if he knew who the copyist was. The lawyer grew suspicious of her questionings and began an investigation of his own; it was clear to him she knew the mysterious man. By the time he found out that the copyist Nemo was responsible for the document, and that he most likely died after consuming a massive amount of opium, he had already begun to figure out their past. He made sure to tell Lady Dedlock the news himself, and confirmed his suspicions when she passed out upon hearing his words.

Crushed by a grief she couldn’t reveal, Lady Dedlock sought to retrace the steps that had led her beloved to perish in such conditions. She took her maid’s clothes and wondered through the streets of St. Albans, asking here and there about Nemo until she bumped into a street boy who apparently had been cared for by him. She paid him to show her where the captain lived, worked, and his final resting place. Honoria wept at his grave, longing for a time when they had known such happiness she was certain she would never find again. On a state of distress, she was making her way through the streets when a bump almost threw her fragile figure to the ground.

“Madam, I’m terribly sorry, my apologies for my clumsiness. Are you alright?”

It took more than the blink of an eye for Lady Dedlock to notice she was being supported by a tall man on a topper, who now was trying to reach her eyes through the black veil that covered her face. She nodded, unable to respond in a different way while overwhelmed by the day’s peregrination, but bowed politely a second time, in appreciation for him not letting her fall and went her way, thinking what a peculiar, strange man that was. A few steps later, she turned on her shoulder to find him standing in the middle of the street, looking straight at her with a shy smile and touching the brim of his hat.

Alas, what Lady Dedlock failed to see was the shadow of an elderly man who followed her every step from the moment she’d arrived in the town. Not a moment after the veiled woman began pacing towards the brief road to Chesney Wold, Tulkinghorn made his way to Krook's Rag & Bottle Shop, the last abode of the man they called Nemo.


	2. Chapter 2

Tulkinghorn waited in a corner, until who he knew was Lady Dedlock disappeared on her way to Chesney Wold, then rushed to the place where Nemo lived and died. He stepped into Krook's Rag & Bottle Shop and presented himself, not waiting for Krook’s answer to climb up the stairs. The imponent lawyer was known by every single citizen of the town; so was his ruthless manners and despise for the least fortunate members of society. He had been taken from a humble family that served Sir Leicester for generations, and was educated by him to be a loyal servant. And that is what he was. In Tulkinghorn’s eyes, there was no other worthy of his dedication than his lordship, and he knew no limits to serve his purposes.

He entered Nemo’s room and began a frantic search to anything that could prove Lady Dedlock’s association to that man. The place hadn’t been cleaned since the police took his body, so it was a whirlwind of papers mingled with a few belongings: he found a Royal Army medal, but no uniform, patent, or weapon. There was a multitude of copied documents, but not one that could serve his interests. Frustrated, he climbed down again and spoke to Krook.

“Krook, have you been to this man, Nemo’s, quarters after he died? Have you given anything to the police as evidence?”

“No, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I wasn’t there. The police searched but didn’t take anything, as well. Why, was he hiding something? He owned me his rent, if there’s anything that could cover it, it’s mine by right.” 

Krook was lying, of course he’d been there to look for money, and of course the lawyer sensed it in the drunk man’s answer. He just couldn’t tell if anything was taken from the room. Just as he stood by the front door of the shop, Tulkinghorn caught a glimpse of something out of place among the multitude of papers and documents Krook had scattered all around: it was a small pack of what seemed to be letters, written in feminine calligraphy and tied with a pink silk ribbon. He had to get his hands on it, preferably without Krook noticing so he wouldn’t have to bribe him.

Turning again to the shop owner, he approached him menacingly, with the coolness of someone who knows has the power to crush men at will. He was almost touching Krook’s face when he hissed that, if he had hidden anything, any document at all that could be of use at the Court of Chancery, he would personally see to the fate of his shop and his person. As he spoke, he sneaked his arm and retrieved the parcel, tucking it into his jacket without the other man even realizing it was gone.

Victory at last. A look at the handwriting and the distinguished perfume of muguet were enough to tell him the letters indeed belonged to Lady Dedlock. Sir Leicester’s honour would be protected, and Tulkinghorn would have the wretched woman eating from his hand. She was his.

*****

It hadn’t been a week and Mantle was already familiarized with many of the faces on the streets of St. Albans. He would spend his days wondering around, getting to know the businesses that moved the city, having lunch at the local inn just to watch the people go by. It was a pleasant exercise for his inquisitive mind, and he was pleased to note that the people there began to grow accustomed to seeing him around, even though their side gazes were a bit of a thin line between suspicion and curiosity at the newcomer.

And that was what called his attention to the delicate figure in black he ran into that afternoon, sliding gracefully as if her feet didn’t touch the ground. Mantle had never seen her before, and she almost seemed out of place on the busy main street. He could tell by her posture, her gestures, her moves and the lack of words to him, that she was not a maid, but someone who didn’t want to – or couldn’t afford to – be recognized. Most likely noble. Most likely married to a man who would rather have her indoors or close enough to grasp. She smelled of muguet, a sophisticated and rather unusual choice for an English lady, and so alluring. He was intrigued.

Mantle spent the evenings with Snagsby and his wife, the three of them were truly enjoying each other’s company, and conversation would go on for hours. That night he asked his host about the aristocratic families of the region, hoping to find any clues on the woman in black, and the old man relished in telling the stories of the Dedlocks of Chesney Wold, their quarrel over property with their neighbour Mr. Lawrence Boythorn and, most notoriously, Mr. John Jarndyce of Bleak House and the infamous law case Jarndyce & Jarndyce, who seemed to be the curse of the family.

They were halfway through their brandy when a knock on the door interrupted Snagsby’s vivid recounting of the interminable case. A bald, bearded middle-aged man was shown inside by Mrs. Snagsby and greeted the men as they rose from their armchairs.

“Good evening, Inspector Bucket, what a pleasant surprise! Allow me to introduce my good friend’s son, Fox Mantle. He is new in town and has been keeping me company until he settles down.” The three of them shook hands amicably.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mantle… wait a minute, are you by any chance an Oxford graduate? I believe I have heard word about a brilliant student with an aptitude for investigation and an appetite for mystery, a… ‘Spooky Mantle’, if I’m not mistaken…” Bucket looked at him, frowning his brows as if to dig inside his head for the memory.

“’Spooky Mantle’, are you sure, Bucket?”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Mr. Snagsby… indeed, that would be me. Although I must say ‘spooky’ is not very accurate of my colleagues. I don’t spook people, I just… hold an interest over the realms of extreme possibilities.”

“Well then, I believe I can assist you in satisfying your curiosity, and finding yourself a job at the same time, which I believe you will be needing soon if you wish to stay in St. Albans. How would you like to help me on an investigation tomorrow?”

“I’d be delighted to, Sir. How can I assist?”

“You see, I just left Krook's Rag & Bottle Shop not many steps from here, where Mr. Krook himself was found deceased and… well, carbonized. But you see, his shop or any of the rooms he rents above had any traces of fire. He was the only… well, his body was the only thing burnt there. Not even his furry cat, or the ridiculous amount of paper he keeps. Kept. There wasn’t a single fire outbreak.” 

While Snagsby looked disconcerted by the surreal situation, Mantle’s eyes shone at the prospect.

“Mr. Mantle, would you accompany me tomorrow morning and assist with this… spooky investigation?”

“I’d be more than happy to, Inspector.” 

That night, Mantle hardly slept in anticipation, like a child waiting for Christmas morning. The little time he did sleep, his dreams were surrounded by the fragrance of muguet.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mantle, my boy, please sit and have breakfast with us, it’s not like Krook’s going anywhere!” 

The old man’s indignant tone was not one of outrage, but of worry when Fox rushed through the dining table and, like a typhoon had taken over the place, grabbed a piece of bread, squeezed Snagsby’s shoulder, kissed the top of his wife’s head, caught his topper, coat and scarf, and closed the door behind him with a bang, shouting something in between that sounded like “I’ll try to be back for supper, but do please help yourselves if I don’t”.

Mantle was thrilled, to say the least. On his way to the inspector’s office, he couldn’t help but to think that the feeling in his gut when he arrived in town was right: in a week’s time, not only was he offered the prospect of a job, but one in which he could use his knowledge and empirically test – maybe prove? – his musings on the extraordinary. His first chance, in the form of what he was almost certain was a spontaneous human combustion, nothing less. He would take this chance and make the best of it. He would write papers, give lectures, mesmerize the scientific society, prove the Oxford intellectuals wrong… inside his head, it all seemed a won battle, even when he had yet to begin examining the case.

Inspector Bucket was finishing his coffee over some reports when Mantle arrived. He welcomed the young man and pointed a chair opposite him, noticing the blended anxiety and excitement on his face, his hands nervously tapping the topper that now lied on his knees. The two went over the schedule for the day, agreeing to pay a visit first and foremost to Krook’s shop and then the morgue. There were no obvious suspects, and it would take a thorough examination of the chaotic place where the deceased lived and worked if they wished to have at least a small glimpse of what happened.

“You do realise this is a litmus test for you, Mr. Mantle… don’t you? I’m in desperate need for an assistant with investigative background, but I cannot, and will not, jeopardize my work’s credibility for a pursuit of any supernatural elements you think you will find in this case. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Sir. I will no…”

“Call me Inspector, will you, son?” He replied in his monotonous, grave tone, without taking his eyes from his readings, the cup of coffee halfway to his mouth.

“Perfectly clear, Inspector. I’m much grateful for this opportunity, and I will not disappoint you.”

“Good. Shall we, then?”

After a few minutes’ walk, the men arrived at Krook's Rag & Bottle Shop. The place, guarded by a couple of police officers that usually did rounds of the vicinity, was an utter and complete mess, and Mantle thought to himself it was going to be quite the challenge to pull something out of there. Instead of frustration, a sentiment clearly stamped on the inspector’s face, he was exhilarated. Bucket moved Krook’s poor cat that was still there, comfortably sit on top of a pile of documents, and began to scan the papers for anything that could be slightly helpful. Mantle, on the other hand, roved around and then up the stairs to observe the room from above. From there, he could see the nitid outlines of the burnt body against the floor, as well as a trace of what looked like a path of gooey cinders, that ran from the rugged armchair to the hardwood, as if the man had slipped from a seating position with his back already burning.

“What do you see from up there, Mantle?”

“I see you do not wish to take another step further, Inspector, or you will step into what’s left of Krook on the floor.”

Bucket shivered and paced backwards until out of the range of what had been Krook. 

“Inspector, I can also see two clear footsteps exactly to your right, which I believe match others that I see right here on the stairs, but not as pronounced as the ones beside you. I think… this person, and I trust is a tall man, given the size and format of the prints, was visiting someone on the upper floor…” with this statement, Mantle finished climbing and entered an open room at the end of the stairs. He carefully observed the place and came across Nemo’s Royal Army medal lying on the bed, the name Captain James Hawdon barely readable in the fading golden letters of the case.

Mantle joined Bucket downstairs, asking if he had found anything useful among the papers, to what the inspector replied with an annoyed sigh. He then gave up on the papers and began to look at the several bottles aligned by the mantelpiece and the window. All of them dried and smelling of old liquor, one in particular laid by the armchair, an amber flask of about a litre. “Check that one, Mantle. Is it also empty?”

Fox took the bottle and examined it. There wasn’t a single drop of liquid inside, yet the neck seemed to have some sort of residue in it. He pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and took a closer look, and then smelled it, trying to figure out what had been Krook’s last drink. Reckless as was his nature, he touched the bottleneck lightly and brought the smeared finger to his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the foul taste as Bucket watched the scene in shock.

“Mantle, are you out of your mind? You NEVER lick evidence, you baboon! You can get poisoned, or corroded, or infected with something, this is absurd!!!”

“You are absolutely right, Inspector… tell me something: how much of a drunk was this man, Krook?”

“Most likely the biggest one in town. Why?”

“Because I think I know what happened to him… you see, this is no liquor, this is actually pure ethyl alcohol. If he was so intoxicated that he drank this without noticing, and if he drank it too fast, too close to the fireplace that his body heat was increased, he could have been a victim of a spontaneous human combust…” he never finished his brilliant deduction, because there was a sudden commotion by the door, and both the inspector and himself stepped outside to see what was going on. 

“It is mine, I gained it! Let me go!”

A street boy was being held by the two officers on the sidewalk, screaming at the top of his lungs for them to let him go. One of the officers was holding a golden coin that clearly had been taken from his hands.

“What seems to be the problem here?”

“Inspector, this street rat was carrying this. He must have stolen it!”

“I didn’t steel anything, I gained it, from the woman in black! She gave it to me!”

Mantle’s eyes widened, and he crouched on his legs to meet the boy’s eyes. “What woman in black, boy? Who are you talking about?”

“The woman in black, I don’t know her. She gave me this coin to show her places.”

“And where did you go with her? Was she alone?” Mantle’s gentle voice seemed to have calmed the kid.

“I took her here, to this store, and then to the law office near Mr. Snagsby, and then to the graveyard. She was not alone, she was with me… and there was this man behind us.”

“What man, boy?”

“A tall, old man with glasses. I see him every day at the Chancery. He makes people cry in there.”

“You are not referring to the lawyer, Mr. Tulkinghorn, are you boy?” Bucket asked with a confused look.

“Who is Mr. Tulkinghorn?” Mantled asked.

“Tulkinghorn is the most respected lawyer in St. Albans. He attends to Sir Leicester Dedlock’s, and has been following the Jarndyce & Jarndyce case for years for his lordship, on behalf of his wife who may have a claim to that will. I don’t see why he would be chasing mysterious women in black.”

“Boy, did this man leave town with the woman?”

“No, Sir. She gave me the coin and left alone. I saw the man later heading here, to the shop. Then I saw the guards on patrol, and I went about my business…”

Mantle and Bucket looked at each other, suspecting that, even if it wasn’t Tulkinghorn, they’d find that the man following the woman in black could be their prime suspect of the incineration of Krook. If it wasn’t a case of spontaneous human combustion, which Mantle was so confident about. He took the coin from the officer and gave it back to the kid along with another coin from his pocket, and in a flash the poor boy disappeared.

“Well, I guess we must pay a visit to Mr. Tulkinghorn… right, Inspector?”

“I don’t see what business he could have with the likes of Krook, but if you insist… I’d like to see where your investigation leads us. But first let’s examine the body, shall we?”

*****

Tulkinghorn arrived at Chesney Wold in the afternoon, a little before teatime, knowing it was the moment Sir Leicester rested every day in his room, not to be disturbed. He asked the valet to announce him and send for Lady Dedlock, to whom he wished to speak privately. 

A few minutes later she arrived at the parlour, where he politely kissed her hand in greeting. She sent the maid and the valet away, and invited the lawyer to seat in front of her, asking what it is he wished to speak with her in private. Lady Dedlock’s sober look dismantled in shock as he didn’t say a word, but took a pink silk ribbon from his pocket and stretched it to her face. Before saying anything, her indifference mask was back on.

“What is this, Mr. Tulkinghorn?” her voice dull and restrained, blasé even.

“I believe your ladyship knows exactly what this is.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what…”

“You do not wish to play games with me, Lady Dedlock. I know about the letters. I have them. I read them… all.” In spite of her controlled expression, Tulkinghorn could see her crumbling down from inside. “I know about your captain, about the child you bore, and now I know you married Sir Leicester for his name and fortune. You never tricked me, but now I have the proof in my possession.”

Lady Dedlock was fighting back tears as much as she could. She stood in the most dignified posture she could master, and quietly asked him to leave. Tulkinghorn raised from the armchair and, invading her personal space to the point she could feel his breath on her cheek, he grabbed her by the shoulders forcefully and smelled her, rubbing his nose to her neck. “You may conjure the most believable noble façade, but once a harlot, always a harlot. I shall not bring this filthy secret to public, because Sir Leicester’s image must be preserved at all costs, so I warn you: I… own… you…”

Before he could make any more advances on her, a bell rang announcing that Sir Leicester was awake, and it was time to serve tea at the very same room where they were. He let her loose, kissed her hand with the most gentlemanly posture and went away. 

Lady Dedlock could hardly breathe and slid into the sofa, tears now silently pouring and legs wobbly as if boneless. Tulkinghorn’s last words made her nauseous. She retreated to her boudoir before her husband arrived, and let her maid tell him she would not accompany him for tea today. Not only she was alone, she was now trapped and didn’t want to think about what the lawyer meant with what he said. So she cried herself to sleep, until it was supper time and she would have to put on her most “believable noble façade” to Sir Leicester.


	4. Chapter 4

“Wife, do you feel ill? You barely touched your soup.” Sir Leicester feasted on a main course of roast as he stared at Lady Dedlock, the spoon in her hand frozen in mid-air, never reaching her lips.

“I’m afraid luncheon didn’t agree with me today, my lord. I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Shall I send for the doctor? I don’t like to see you so dreary. And besides, you must look your best tomorrow, we are having guests.”

“Guests, my lord? Was it arranged earlier this week?”

“No, it was quite sudden. Mr. John Jarndyce of Bleak House has taken two young orphaned cousins under his wings who happen to be possible beneficiaries of the Jarndyce & Jarndyce will… I just thought it might be of my interest, and yours my dear, to take a close look at them, after all, you are a potential heir yourself. I sent them an invitation this morning.”

“Very well, my lord. I will be fine with some rest, there is no need to send for a doctor. If I may be excused, I will retreat to my room. Tomorrow you will find me looking my best.” 

“You are excused, my dear. Come here, let me kiss you good night.”

Eighteen years beside a much older man, being kissed good night by cold lips, greasy with roast and gravy. Lady Dedlock had thought the disgusting sensation on her own lips would eventually vanish, as all her other senses slowly became numb with the passing of the years, but that gesture never failed to bring a pinch to her stomach. To her good fortune, he was a respectful, dignified nobleman; after a distraught wedding night that deeply wounded his pride as a man, Sir Leicester never tried to touch her again, convinced his prime years were long gone, and contented himself with their innocent good morning and good night kisses. Intimately, she was grateful for his detached, chivalrous manners. Even though she had been lonely for so many years, she suffered with the longing for the one man she once had in her heart and in her bed, and who, now forever, was gone. As was the young and spirited Honoria Barbary. She missed her former self and had no hope of ever retrieving her again. After this afternoon’s events, that pinch in the stomach was even more severe, the ghost feeling of Tulkinghorn’s forced touch bittering her mouth.

Lost in thought and discreetly rubbing her lips with her knuckles, the lady said good night and floated up the stairs, asking one of the maids to bring a pot of chamomile to her chambers.

*****

Fox Mantle fought his stomach for an entirely different reason that late afternoon. After a quick late lunch at the inn, Inspector Bucket and he arrived at the morgue to check Krook’s carbonized body with the help of a medical examiner. It had been an agitated and surprising morning. While Bucket was surprised by the alleged presence of Mr. Tulkinghorn in such low establishment, Mantle was surprised to learn, in an astounding circumstance, a bit about the lady in black he so inelegantly stumbled into on the street. He failed to get her out of his mind, even with the rush of adrenaline this investigation was giving him.

Although not a religious or spiritual person, he believed things always happened for a reason, maybe due to some law of the Universe that hadn’t been unveiled yet – exchange of energies, cause and effect, magnetism, he couldn’t tell, but had this idea that whatever action taken by a person in the course of their life had its effect bounced back at them. If this happened to be just a rationalization about the fortunes of people with no scientific backing, at least it was a comforting thought. So he lived his life trying to be a positive force to himself and others, so that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to receive something positive in the end.

That is why Fox currently felt so grateful that the poor street boy crossed his way and told everything he knew about his mysterious veiled woman, and possibly helped with the investigation that could grant him a permanent and fulfilling job. That is what he was thinking, at least until he stood by the autopsy bay and the examiner uncovered the deceased’s body. He brought his closed fist to his mouth, concentrating on the self-inflicted pain of biting his fingers in an attempt to divert his senses from the distinct, awful smell of burnt flesh and the nightmarish image in front of him.

It was something appallingly extraordinary: a coal-black piece of muscles and bones, shrunken as if dehydrated but covered by a gooey substance that could only be the remnants of its skin, mingled with bits of fabric that miraculously weren’t consumed by the fire. The eye orbits were hollow, but a thread of sticky nerves could still be seen inside, and the yellowish teeth in the skull contrasted with the dark remains.

“Good gracious!” was the only thing Inspector Bucket could mumble; Mantle didn’t say a word for the was gagging.

“I suggest you examine what you have to at your earliest convenience, this fellow must be buried immediately.” With these words, the medical examiner left both investigators alone.

“Tell me, boy, what can you make of this body?”

Mantle put himself together the best he could, took his magnifying glass and, still covering his mouth, began a thorough observation. He noticed woollen fibres glued to the skin, the apparent hole in the muscle that should be covering the belly, and couldn’t find anything distinguishable enough that would point to foul play.

“Well Sir… excuse me, Inspector, considering that there is presence of clothing still untouched by the fire, I could come to the conclusion that the ignition didn’t come from an external source, otherwise the fabric would have burned prior to the skin and flesh and left no traces of it in the deceased. Moreover, the hole in the stomach area could indicate that this was the starting point of the ignition, corroborating my theory that Mr. Krook, due to an increased body heat, somehow ignited the ethyl alcohol he mistakenly ingested too quickly and didn’t process…” Bucket was now with a look in his face Mantle couldn’t tell if was disbelief, mockery or sheer outrage. “… and met his end by means of spontaneous combustion.”

He looked sheepishly to his astounded hopefully-future boss and waited for his reply. And waited a bit more, but apparently the older man was lost for words. Mantle was almost panicking.

“That was… quite an exercise on deduction, Mantle. But you have forgotten an important detail.” 

“What is it, Inspector?”

“There WAS a second person in the building that evening. You discovered it yourself. Now, let’s eliminate that suspicion before considering the realms of… extreme possibilities.”

The two men left the morgue and headed to the inspector’s office, where they started a file to document their findings, and wrote a note to Mr. Tulkinghorn expressing their wishes to converse with him. It was almost eleven o’clock when the exhausted Fox Mantle headed back to Snagsby’s house, and on his arrival to the already silent place, he found a plate of vegetables, some cheese, slices of roast beef, a piece of bread and a glass of wine on the table, with a loving note from the couple: “Congratulations on your first day at work!” Fox never felt so cared for.

*****

Mr. John Jarndyce was cheerful that morning. It’d just been a week since his wards, distant cousins Ada Clare and Richard Carstone, arrived with their young chaperone Esther Summerson, and they were already comfortably accommodated and familiarized with their new home, Bleak House. Considering the immense turn on events on all their lives, with the unexpected discovery that the two youngsters were possible beneficiaries to the Jarndyce & Jarndyce heirloom, all was well on this recently formed and improbable family.

“My dears, you’ve only just arrived and already have the great honour to be invited to Chesney Wold for afternoon tea. Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock are very discreet and do not indulge in many receptions at their house. I believe this is a splendid opportunity to present yourselves… I will reply at once confirming we will be there.”

Of course Mr. Jarndyce knew about Lady Dedlock being a potential heir, so he understood the quick interest Sir Leicester took in the newcomers. Most likely his lawyer Tulkinghorn had advised him to get acquainted with them, so he decided to play their game and test the waters, see their intentions. Both Ada and Richard were yet too young and too naïve, so it was his duty to make sure they wouldn’t be deceived or manipulated in the case good fortune smiled at the pair. Not that Mr. Jarndyce was much hopeful about an overnight solution to a case that has been open for decades at the Court of Chancery.

In spite of everything, the four members of Bleak House’s household were excited to spend a lovely afternoon at the lush gardens of Chesney Wold on the following day.

*****

Morning came, and Lady Dedlock opened her eyes to the warm sunlight that peeked through the curtains. She stood in bed until later than usual and had breakfast alone in her boudoir. If her wishes were to be regarded, there would be no guests, no posh afternoon tea, and she would isolate herself with a few books for the day. Nevertheless, later on she called her maid to prepare her for display: she carefully picked a dazzling summer dress, chose subtle jewels, combed and pinned her hair in a perfect coiffure. As promised, she would look her best to her husband’s guests, the epitome of elegance.

Sir Leicester was already seated at his usual chair in the garden when Lady Dedlock joined him. “My dear, you look stunning.” They both stood there quietly, waiting for the Jarndyce party to arrive, when the valet announced another guest. Lady Dedlock forced herself to act naturally when Mr. Tulkinghorn walked to them and kissed her hand and complimented her “mesmerizing figure, a vision”, his eyes piercing her own with a menacing hold that her husband, always so oblivious to his surroundings, could never perceive.

“Thank you for coming, my good friend. I trust you will observe Mr. Jarndyce and his protegees for me.”

“I most certainly will, my lord. Lady Dedlock’s fate is of my utmost interest to secure… as a possible heir in the Jarndyce testament, and your loving, dear wife.”

“Indeed, Tulkinghorn. Thank you for taking care of our interests.” The smirk on the lawyer’s face drew another course of nausea through the lady’s stomach.

“My lord, I will wait for our guests inside, the heat is disturbing me.” Before he could answer, Lady Dedlock stepped inside the house and sat on a divan by the window. She took a moment to recompose, her breathing slowly evened, and she decided to stay there, staring outside but diverting from the patio where the two men engaged in conversation. A valet entered the room and announced a visitor, but she hardly heard him, consumed by her thoughts.

Lady Dedlock didn’t notice the man in a topper standing by the door for a long time, until he moved towards the divan.

“It is you.”


	5. Chapter 5

Fox Mantle arrived at Chesney Wold and was promptly announced. The valet accompanied him to the drawing room that led to the patio by the garden, but instead of leading him all the way he turned around and left Mantle to cross the room alone, unaware of the presence there. He stood by the door, unable to move as he contemplated the tableau before his eyes.

The sober tones of grey and green of the hall shone with the early afternoon sun coming from the garden, dancing as the curtains moved with the soft summer breeze that came from two open windows, one in each end of the room. Little rainbow-like beams appeared here and there where the crystal chandeliers filtered the warm light, which gave the place a kind of a fairy-tale atmosphere. Directly opposed to Mantle, there was a stained glass door opened to the patio, and to its right, a woman sat at a divan, her eyes lost at some spot of the immensity of the garden, and her back to the rest of the world. She was seated without reclining, her swan neck held straight up, supporting the faraway stare, making the delicate chin point in its direction, and while one arm laid lose on her lap, the other was spread on the back of the divan, the hand gently fallen over it. She had the pose of a prima ballerina, strong and fragile. The same rainbow sparkle from the chandeliers reflected through the subtle jewelled pins that peppered her dark curly hair like a starry night, perfectly coiffed. She wore a lavender summer dress, and the colour and delicacy of the silk complemented the very same qualities of her fair skin, sprinkled by tiny rosy freckles that would go unnoticed to the ordinary spectator. Her profile contrasted with the sunlight coming indirectly from the window through which she observed the multitude of shades of green in the garden, it perfectly delineated the elegant shapes of her. The forehead and jawline carried the dignity and gentleness of a goddess; Persephone with an aquiline nose. Her plump lips, of the colour of pomegranates and gently parted as she sighed, seemed to be made solely to whisper enchantments and words of love in the dark.

“It is you.”

Lady Dedlock turned with a gasp, startled by the intrusion that were Mantle’s haunting voice and unexpected presence, the topper now on his hand in sign of respect. She recognized the man from the street who held her and smiled so tenderly as she walked away. That was the moment when Mantle finally saw her eyes; translucid aquamarine in colour, tinged with a hidden feeble flame, almost extinguished by such melancholy that made his heart sink heavy on his chest. She was the most beautiful and sad creature he had ever encountered.

“I’m afraid we are not acquainted, Mister…”

“Oh, but we have met. I could recognize you anywhere. I’m Mr. Fox Mantle.” He didn’t dare approach further, but she extended her hand for him to greet, so he moved closer and stopped, bowing reverently and kissing her knuckles, instantly recognizing the fragrance of muguet that had haunted his dreams for the past two nights. They exchanged looks, him reassuring her secret was safe, her acknowledging his message. Lady Dedlock thought she had never felt anything softer in her hands than that man’s lips. 

“Fox… Mantle…. what a peculiar name. I am Lady Honoria Dedlock, wife of Sir Leicester Dedlock and mistress of Chesney Wold.”

“I guess my lady could say I am a peculiar man, with a peculiar name. It is a pleasure to meet your ladyship.”

“Likewise. Are you here to see Sir Leicester?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Tulkinghorn, my lady. I tried to reach him in his office and was told he was here for the afternoon. Since this is an urgent matter, I decided to try my luck.”

Her sudden change of posture, the deviation of her eyes and the visible tension in her body didn’t go unnoticed to Mantle. “Mr. Tulkinghorn is in the patio with my husband. You may go to him.” Reading a person’s reactions so easily really felt as a blessing and a curse, for now he wouldn’t stop wondering what it was about Tulkinghorn that put Lady Dedlock is such state of distress. He bowed once more, keeping the lock of his eyes on her face, and moved toward the sunlit patio where the two men talked.

“What is this? Who are you?” Sir Leicester asked from his seat, confused and visibly exasperated as to why there was an unknown man standing before him without being announced.

“My lord, my name is Mr. Fox Mantle, assistant to Inspector Bucket. I was announced and accompanied by your valet to the drawing room and invited in here by Lady Dedlock.”

“Mantle… would you happen to be related to the Mantles from Inverness?”

“Mr. William Mantle is my father, my lord.”

“Ah yes… William Mantle. Served the Crown for many years before returning to his ancestors’ provincial land. I might know him from the House of Lords. What can I do for you, Mr. Mantle? It is almost teatime and I’m expecting guests.”

“My most sincere apologies for disturbing your afternoon, my lord, I won’t be long. I’m here with a note from the inspector to Mr. Tulkinghorn. He wishes to see him at his earliest convenience.” Mantle explained and nodded at the lawyer, who raised his hand to take the wax-sealed paper. 

“And what is it that Bucket wants from me, boy?” Tulkinghorn spoke for the first time. He didn’t look at Mantle or even had the courtesy of nodding or introducing himself. The latter, on the other hand, observed him attentively as he opened the note and silently read it.

“Sir, Inspector Bucket would like to have a few words with you regarding Krook's Rag & Bottle Shop and his recently deceased owner. I am sure you know what happened.” 

Tulkinghorn’s neck suddenly stiffed and a vein popped visibly with tension, even though his face didn’t lose the serious coolness and arrogance that was always imprinted there and never failed to intimidate. Or almost never. Fox could for a fact read the man like a book – the unnatural, somewhat forced stance of superiority and pride trying to hide an utter dread of his probably humble origins, the slightly shaky hands giving up his uneasiness at being cornered by an authority figure, the tone of disdain in his voice used to provoke and bully covering up insecurities. And now the stiff neck at the mention of Krook was telling him he might have something to do with the case, after all. 

“Very well, Mr. Fox Mantle… what kind of a name is ‘Fox’, anyway… Mr. Mantle, you turn around and let Bucket know I will go to him when my business with Sir Leicester is done. It may be this evening, it may be tomorrow.”

“My friend, maybe you should go with Mr. Mantle to the inspector.”

“No, my lord. I’m not sure what it is that Bucket thinks I can add to this dreadful matter, as I most certainly had nothing to do with that man and his… pigsty… my ‘earliest convenience’ prioritizes your lordship’s needs, and Lady Dedlock’s.”

Mantle couldn’t help but notice the inflection with which Tulkinghorn said Lady Dedlock’s name. Quickly remembering the way she’d reacted to the mentioning of the man a few moments ago, a shadow of a doubt became to form in his mind. What is the connection between these two?

He was just thanking and bowing to the two gentlemen when a hustle and bustle was heard from the drawing room below them. The Jarndyce party just arrived and was being led to the patio, closely followed behind by Lady Dedlock. The sight of her in full sunlight took Mantle by surprise; it was like a veil had been lifted from her figure, and although the sadness was still there, indissoluble, she shone in full, true colours. He discreetly smiled and nodded at her, put on his topper, and after receiving her own delicate silent compliment, left Chesney Wold to meet his boss. On his way, all he could think about was how he would come up with an excuse to see her again.

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t be shy, leave your feedback! Ideas and requests for upcoming stories are most welcome!


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